Grab My Hand
by Nalbal
Summary: Hand•hold•ing- /'hand, hōldiNG/- 1. the provision of careful attention, support, or reassurance to another. / To dwarves, family is sacred, and touch has meaning. The touching of shoulders is between friends. The touching of foreheads is between close friends and loved ones. The touching of hands is between close kin... and brothers are no exception. (NO SLASH)
1. Chapter I

**_Emptiness._**

* * *

I feel nothing. I feel as empty and listless as the dead autumn breeze that blows across the moors. Even now I can hear it whistling through the stone tomb, accentuating the hopelessness of the mournful dirge plaguing my young ears.

Dead. _Da is dead._

The deep-throated words of song reverberate on the walls around me, deep and grieved. The richness of the sound envelopes me like a soft, heavy, suffocating blanket, yet still my heart will not stir. Why don't I feel sorrow? Why don't I feel pain? _Why don't I feel anything?_

I can just barely see into the casket. Had it been a mere few weeks ago, I would have been too short; I've grown. Da was proud. He laughed, boasting that I'd grow another six inches before I reached my eighth summer. He picked me up and swung me around and laughed some more, his eyes glittering and his smile wide and care-free as it always was. His wild lion's mane flew about as we spun and it tickled me.

Da is dead and his face his white. His eyes are hidden beneath closed lids and he does not smile. His golden hair is a dull blond. His hands are folded neatly over his chest, fingers closed around the hilt of his sword, as is the warrior's tradition. I haven't seen my eight summer.

I touch the casket—and still, I feel as cold as the stone beneath my fingertips.

There is crying, soft and restrained. I look up; it's Mum, and she's shaking badly. I cannot see her face, for it has been hidden by black locks of hair as she bows her head. Uncle does not cry, but his face is drawn tight as he looks into the casket. His eyes seem a little red as he puts his arm around Mum's shoulders.

Kíli is at Mum's hip. He doesn't understand all the crying, all the singing, all the sadness. I stare at my feet, shaking my head; he isn't three winters old, yet. I don't think he knows what's going on.

I hear a sniffle, and I look up once more. My little brother is staring down at me, lip quivering, brown eyes shimmering. He looks afraid. He doesn't understand but he is fearful, and he is sad. Confused, tearful eyes bore through mine as he stretches out one pudgy hand, but he is too high up to reach me. He struggles slightly; Mum utters a soft wail and places Kíli on his feet before she melts into Uncle Thorin's arms.

Kíli totters next to me and stretches out his hand again, this time more insistently.

Quietly, I take his small, soft hand in mine, and watch as he sighs a little and leans against me, upset but somehow reassured.

Only then do I feel something. I feel _everything._

I cry.

_But I am not alone._

* * *

_**Fullness.**_

* * *

_A/N: This will be a series about ten chapters long of short scenes in various lengths. My muse, the Blue Canary, struck me with inspiration after we saw The Desolation of Smaug at the midnight premiere. I shall post this in between packing for Christmas break..._


	2. Chapter II

_A/N: All of these updates will be voiced from Fíli's POV. In this chapter, Fíli and Kíli are 20 and 15 in Dwarven years, comparable to human ages 14 and 12._

* * *

**_Weakness._**

* * *

I pad softly across the cold stone floors in slippered feet, listening intently. I'm not sure what I'm looking for but whatever it is, I know I shall find out soon enough. I know there's something wrong; without knowing what it is or why, I can sense it.

The gentle splashing of water echoes down the hall. Someone is washing.

I already know who it is even before I hear his sigh. I can _feel_ his presence… and I know something is amiss. My footsteps halt abruptly at the next sound: a restrained sob, followed by another. Then there is a sniffle, followed by eerie silence. After a few moments there is the tinkling of fresh water being pumped into the wash basin. My heart is immediately troubled.

Breathlessly, I turn the dark corner to see that the door to the small wash room is cracked open, lamplight streaming out. On tiptoe I approach and peek around the door, unsurprised when my sight confirms my senses.

Kíli is hunched over the basin, head down and shoulders shaking with silent cries.

"Little Brother?" I call to him softly. He immediately stiffens and freezes where he stands. "What's wrong?"

A few seconds later he replies. "Nothing," he mutters. We both know I wouldn't have believed him, but the way he audibly chokes on his own tears when he speaks makes his statement even more preposterous. He ducks his head even further when I walk towards him.

"Of course not," I murmur. I stand beside him, placing my hands on the metal basin and leaning forward slightly, trying to catch his eye. His long, dark hair is in a ponytail, with only a mess of loose strands partially shielding his face. I don't say anything else for a while; I just continue to stand beside him, waiting.

A full two minutes pass before I try again.

"Little Brother," I begin quietly, slowly inching my shoulder closer until it brushes against his. "What's wrong?"

He shudders slightly at my touch, and melts. He trembles. "Everything," he whispers. His breath hitches as he turns to me, face darkened with bruises, lip split and bleeding. There are tear tracks through the mud on his cheek, and a bad scratch over his brow. He falls silent, but his eyes scream his suffering in volumes his voice could never reach. We stare at one another for another full minute, I in shock and he in shame, before I come to my senses and lay my hands on his shoulders. I take a deep breath and I start to say something, but I think the better of it and push him onto a stool instead; he does not resist, but slumps down with his hands locked between his knees. I take the cloth he had been using, wring it out, and pump fresh water over it. I bite my tongue against all the questions I could ask—that I _should _ask—and wordlessly begin wiping Kíli's face clean of the blood and dirt, mindful of the painful marks that seem to grow darker by the moment. Kíli just sits there, seeming torn between silence and speaking, pained yet comforted by my presence. I do not comment on the occasional tear that slips from his eyes as I tend to him. Minutes pass in this manner.

Finally I break the aching quiet. "I'm here," is all I say. I pause to push the now-wet strands of hair out of his eyes as I prepare to tend to the cut on his brow.

At my touch his eyes well up with astonishing speed and he squeezes them shut, droplets slipping rapidly over his cheeks. He leans forward and pushes his head against my stomach, his breath hitching. The wall is close to breaking.

I place my free hand on his back. "Com'on, Kee. Talk to me." I draw a circle over his shoulder blades. "Y'know you can trust me."

The wall cracks, crumbles; he begins to sob quietly into my shirt. I say nothing, but I drop the cloth and fold my hands around his slim shoulders as he rides out his crippling wave of emotion. After a few minutes he begins to slowly spill a sad tale of a bully** who has mocked and hurt him badly. He tells me of how he has been pulled into a useless set of matches that he cannot escape without sullying his own honor. His fearlessness has not been lacking but his inferior build is his bane.

"I cannot beat him, Fíli," he wails softly into my tunic. "I am weak."

"You are not," I insist, bending to my knees suddenly and looking into his stricken face. "You can do this."

He shakes his head, ponytail swinging from the force of his movement. "I do not know how."

"I will help you." My voice hardens as I look meaningfully into his eyes.

"No," he shakes his head again, though he smiles softly. "You cannot. I must do this alone."

Frowning slightly, I reach forward and pull at his wrists, freeing his hands from where they are trapped between his knees and taking them in mine. They are cold, dry, and chapped, cut from falling against rocky, unforgiving ground. I squeeze them firmly.

"Never. You need not, Brother," I tell him sternly. "You have me. We'll figure something out. I believe in you."

I do not know if he is prepared to accept my help, but the tension in Kíli's shoulders lessens considerably and he straightens up slightly. A hint of the normal gleam returns to his eyes and he looks at me softly. Presently, he replies.

"I know you do," he mumbles. "You always do."

I just hold on tighter and smile at him until he, too, can smile wistfully through his tears.

* * *

**_Strength._**

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_A/N: Fair warning to all you lovely readers- I'm just free-writing. There isn't much in the way of editing going on except for the quick run-through to check or grammar/spelling. I'm burning off steam here. (Architecture problems, y'all. I can't wait to go home.)_

****A reference to my previous story, 'A Private Little War'.  
**


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